


strike you down

by hikaie



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: Three soulmarks has taught Rook one thing: to speak little, and with care.





	strike you down

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe me if I said I didn't set out to write angst when I started this?
> 
> ("First words your soulmate says to you is your soulmark" style AU)

No one has ever questioned Rook wearing gloves. Some people are _private_ about their soulmate marks, and the hands are more obvious than other body parts. It’s acceptable, and when Rook gets issued their first uniform there’s a set of plain brown gloves included. They know it’s not standard, and Rook appreciates the gesture. The words are… unusual, to say the least. Not to mention the marks themselves. _Plural_. The gloves aren’t well-worn and comfortable like they’re used to, but they pull them on and Whitehorse shoots them a knowing look at the station.

When Rook is reaching for the headset, damn sure they have a concussion but fighting through the pain and vertigo, Joseph Seed snaps a hand out and grabs their arm. He’s singing, they register. He peels Rook’s sleeve back and they don’t have the energy to _fight_. It’s the wrong glove- around Rook’s right wrist is a compact scrawl of the words _You will confess_. They’d thought those words, perhaps, the most normal of their soulmate marks; someone pleading with them to admit their feelings. Now, they’re not so sure. Not with the other marks burning traitorously on their left hand. Joseph makes a little hum in the back of his throat, and lets their hand drop.

Things happen very quickly, after that.

Rook doesn’t have time to breathe, to _think_ , body running on adrenaline and instinct until it all comes to a stop with heat and water. The best sleep they’ll get for a long time is chained to the bed in Dutch’s bunker. When he tells them to change, they’re happy to find black hunting gloves in the locker, a suitable exchange for the now-singed pair that they roll up in their uniform and stuff into the bottom of the locker. Out of sight, out of mind.

 

When John says the words, they’re too Blissed out to know. The next time they’re in his clutches, they’ve been stripped of their weapons and the rope binding their wrists chafes. They stop struggling almost immediately, aware that raw skin means a lack of gloves. John is _reverent_ when he tears their shirt open, sponges off their chest. He seems to be nearly bursting with excitement when he’s waiting for Rook’s answer, and Rook comes to a conclusion very quickly. They already know exactly what their soul mark is, don’t have to see it on his body.

So they remain silent, shaking in their bindings and staring down their soulmate. He grows agitated and they flinch when the table goes toppling over. After he leaves they let out a shuddering breath and squeeze their eyes shut. The mark on their wrist seems like a taunt, now. _You will confess_. They will. They _will_.

 

Eli is dead, and Rook is looking down the hall leading from the Wolf’s Den with a sick mixture of dread and bloodlust in their stomach. It’s the after effects- the nausea, the urge to hurt and the grief crashing together. Waves on an unbreakable shore, because they never get to break, to rest, do they? It’s death after death after death, friend and foe alike. Rook has killed a dear friend, a truly good man who gave them a chance. Who gave them a place to stay, a purpose; reminded them constantly that what they were doing had meaning. He’s gone and Rook isn’t allowed to process it because they’re climbing the stairs into the foggy night above to hunt their soulmate.

Jacob taunts them. Rips them asunder with words, like he had from the very beginning. _The world is weak_. Rook is weak. Because they never say a word to him. Because they let him hold their shirt while he takes a last stuttering breath. And then they gently shudder his eyelids, and yank the chain from his neck.

 

Rook fulfills the word on John’s skin in the church, begging for a true chance at redemption. _Wanting_ to confess, because Eli and Jacob are dead and Rook wants to stop. Wants to sleep and come home to their two remaining soulmates and end it all. Selfishly, Rook _wants_. Jerome, however, has other plans, and what starts as a gun in a Bible ends up as John wrapping his fingers tight around his words on Rook’s wrist. They drop to their knees beside his dead body and sob, wet and broken. _May God have mercy on your soul._

Couldn’t he see that’s all they’ve wanted?

 

Joseph urges them, one last time. Rook remembers walking into the church, hearing Burke and Whitehorse bickering amongst themselves in hushed tones ahead of them.

_Not every problem can be solved with a bullet._

“You know what to do.” The Sheriff says from behind.

So Rook walks away because they can’t stomach putting another one of their soulmates in the ground, even as despicable as they are. Rook walks away because they can’t _do_ it, all of this _resisting_ anymore. With everyone watching, Rook can’t collapse against Joseph and beg for forgiveness. They concede with only a nod, and get into the pick-up, and stare mutely ahead for the long stretch of drive ahead.

It’s funny, really. When the song doesn’t register at first, Rook thinks it’s funny that the others think they’re going back. That Rook isn’t jumping ship the moment they hit Missoula. But the song _does_ register, in that primal part of Rook’s brain that Jacob carved out a permanent spot for himself, more intimate than the blocky print on their skin. Rook comes back to themself a mile down the road, the truck on it’s side.

Pratt is quietly praying. That’s the first thing they hear, followed by the sound of the horn going on and on, a long _wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee_. The windshield is smashed out, and when they push themself up on an elbow glass digs into their skin. Behind them Pratt starts to cry, quietly. There are no other sounds.

Whitehorse’s body is a couple hundred feet behind them on the road, and Joey’s is in the back of the truck cab. Pratt relays the details to them in between sobs. When he’d heard the song on the radio, he’d launched himself across the center console to get at the radio. Rook had already started choking Whitehorse by the time he’d even thought about it, and the truck was veering off, and everything had gotten so confusing- he starts to cry again.

“Rook we gotta go back.” He sobs out, and leans over heavily onto his own knees with the force of his tears. “We can’t- we’ll never make it out here.”

They set their mouth in an uncomfortable line and look off down the road. They could walk out of this county, and take the days as they come. Stay away from music. Maybe deafen themself on purpose. There are things they could do.

“I know, Staci.” Rook says, instead, and together they start walking back toward the compound.

 

The church echoes with the sound of the door opening. Two Peggies at quiet prayer don’t stir, but Joseph- reviewing something at the pulpit- looks up curiously. His eyebrows jump up.

“Deputy. I thought we had an agreement.”

Pratt is behind them, and he’s whispering furtively at Rook. He doesn’t want to be here, not specifically, just in the county. Wanted, perhaps, to go back up into the Whitetails and hole up. No matter how many times Rook has said he doesn’t have to follow, he’d still tailed along.

“I changed my mind.”

These first words send his expression into a mixture of anger and pleasure, warm and closed off. Like he can’t decide whether he wants to address the defiance or the confirmation that they belong to each other. They step further into the church and start to remove their gloves carefully, letting them fall to the raw wooden floor with a soft _thump_. Joseph rises at the pulpit but Rook holds out their hands, a mirror of their first meeting- a surrender.

“Let me come back to you.” Rook pleads.

Joseph raises a hand to his face, and removes his glasses. He looks down at Rook from the stage, face strangely naked and open,

and smiles.


End file.
